The theatre had a curiously mixed personality to its decor. Originally a burlesque house, it borrowed various "classical" elements from sea nymphs to angelic, bare-breasted women with lyres. Twin cupids perched above the stage's dramatic arch, one holding a Drama mask, the other, a round shape where perhaps Comedy had once been. As vaudeville faded, steel vanished and New City's population dropped, the building changed hands and styles; a single color coated marble and mural alike, as it was much less expensive to maintain that way. It is currently in the midst of a halting restoration process where both peeling paint and refreshed muses grace the ceiling, one giving way to the other as money comes in.

I was startled to discover that the "nose bleed" section, due to New City's former style of compact construction, was really not as far from the stage as I had imagined. It was not a full house, but the crowd was as diverse as the theatre's style, so on one hand I had a lady chewing her gum, and on the other, a woman of my age who knew one of the dancers; below us, on the orchestra level, sat the people who could afford the $125 price.

I knew, within a few moments, that I had finally reclaimed the enjoyment of dance for myself, both as a participant and as an audience member. The company was infinitely better than the one belonging to the school I visit once a week. The floor was silk to them, the air like a mist so soft through which one can rise and remain. They were quite refreshing in their presentation, which often contained notes of humor and love (though their performance was not confined to these two qualities alone). The problem with many groups in urban centers trying to differentiate themselves is how, in their struggle, they forget joy and impulse can be just as challenging to portray (and just as "revealing" of humanity and its emotions) as misery and hesitation. You do not have to be dour to be deep.